My brother got himself in rather a lot of strife years back, and ended up in Long Bay, Sydney, Australia, a maximum security unit for a couple of long years. Anyway, he’d been on the dreaded gear, doing break and enters. Got caught basically because he knew he was out of control and left fingerprints, hocked things in his own name, leaving a marked trail for the police to follow to his door. In his mind, incarceration was the only option he could come up with to stop his crazed drug addiction.
It was sad really, because the police were after him, he knew the inevitable was catching up with him, and everyday he’d be wanting just one more shot, just one more. In the end, my other brother and I had to get him and take him to the police station. It was a very sad and emotional situation. One, he was my bro and two, was the fact that I used too! But unlike my brother, I sold drugs to cover my habit and never indulged in theft. But I’m not going to make a moral judgement here, and I didn’t then. I was just concerned for him as he looked like a hunted animal, not the bro I’d grown up with and loved.
Anyway, I was selling the same drug that was destroying him. To cut a long story short, he got two years and he rang asking if l’d I bring him something on Sunday visiting. It was a hard ask, but in light of everything I said “Yeah, I’ll see what I can do, mate”.
My girlfriend and I trooped off to Long Bay come Sunday. I’d never been up front and personal at any jail — I was a bit shocked at the strangeness of the place and all the guards, especially with a half weight of freight on my person, phew! The visiting rooms in maximum security are all open with glass, and I’ve got the gear in my mouth, trying to look as cool as possible, confronted with the tricky process of removing said packet from mouth to my hand, then his hand, before we ran out of time or luck, which ever came first. At the same time, we are trying to make casual conversation and not look around nervously — real James Bond stuff.
This went on for about eight or nine visits, I was actually quite proud of my part, in some black perverse way. Even when I went out to the jail on my own, on leaving I’d say to my girlfriend, “Babe, I may or may not see you later”. But of course, after a few frights I was over it. As well, my brother was looking fit and well — in fact he looked better than me with those three square meals a day — and told me how he wasn’t using any of the gear I brought him anymore. Obviously he was making some fantastic trades inside, so I told him that’s that then, no more.
He rings me frantically from the hole, telling me “Mate, you gotta
bring or I’m gonna get bashed”. Shit, what a dilemma. I really
felt my luck was running out and the screws were getting suspicious, then
on the other hand, I didn’t want the shit kicked out of my brother.
I told him to explain to his associates that this would be the last as my
supply had run out, and set out for the poke.
I had such a bad feeling about it, my girlfriend came and she volunteered
to do the exchange. Well lucky me, as I was pulled out of line by detectives
and strip searched, but they left my girlfriend alone — I was so lucky!
She pretended to be his girl and gave him a big sloppy one and passed the
shit over.
I told him what had happened and that I couldn’t do any more. He was pretty grateful for the gear and two weeks later, was transferred to a minimum security jail. Phew! So what was the moral for me? Gear in jail is a very dangerous business and avoid it if possible. That’s apart from all the pitfalls like hepatitis C, AIDS and veins crapping up! Stay cool.
- PW
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